


that's one way to get a v.i.p. pass into Suledin Keep

by valiantfindekano



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, everything imshael does is dubious, michel is bad at critical thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” Imshael muses, the only indication that he notices the bitter look a tiny wink in Michel’s direction, “it puts me in a difficult situation when the thing you desire the most is me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's one way to get a v.i.p. pass into Suledin Keep

It isn’t the first night in Sahrnia that causes trouble. He’s tired, and suspicious of the townspeople, but the four walls of an empty house are more shelter than he’s had for the better part of a week. He passes out shivering in a corner to the distant lullaby of wolves and croaking ravens, but it’s a relief not to have his armour digging into his sides for once.

It’s not the first night, or the second day, though it takes one look around the crumbling town to assess that something is deeply wrong about the place. And for all that, no one seems to be able to confirm whether or not a demon has taken up residence nearby, as he had heard. All anyone asks is whether or not he’s seen their missing relatives, and if he might look for them.  

Imshael, he thinks at first. But what would Imshael want with a bunch of shivering peasants? If the missing townspeople have anything to do with the demon, the connection is more complicated than Michel can work out. Perhaps the more pressing issue is the spikes of red lyrium drawing closer and closer to the buildings. Ah, and the templars it seems to bring with it.

He’d killed a few the day before simply trying to get to Sahrnia, and kills another that drifts a little too close that evening. The townspeople are thankful, and yet can’t shake the feeling that something’s very wrong. It’s all very pitiful, but it’s probably nothing more than a distraction from his true purpose.

He must be overtired, though less from fighting and more from trying to unravel what is going on to put such an uneasy atmosphere over an already depressed village. That’s the only excuse he can think of for why Imshael should be plaguing his dreams now – as if it isn’t enough that he’s already taken up so many of Michel’s waking thoughts.

The dream is full of subtle shifts. It’s Val Royeaux and it’s Montfort, he’s with Celene one moment and Imshael the next, the walls of the estate giving way to elven ruins and twisting branches in such a way that he barely notices. Anything too dramatic, and he might have woken abruptly, but it all seems so natural.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Michel says in his dream.

“I knew you’d find me,” Imshael answers.

The tone is all wrong, that’s the problem. Michel has wanted to find Imshael, and it’s reasonable that Imshael should expect him, but their faces aren’t supposed to be inches apart when they say it, nor should either of them be speaking in a breathy gasp. And that’s not what he means when he envisions stabbing Imshael –

Michel wakes with his face flushed bright red and a feeling of dread and disgust in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

It’s a few days before he manages to make it near the old elven keep. It’s hard enough picking a trail around the lyrium deposits, and if it weren’t for the thin pair of gloves he wears, he suspects his hands would be raw from clambering over rock and ice in his attempts to get close.

He kills two Templar scouts before he sees it. At first he doesn’t realise it’s alive – is it alive? – because of the spikes of lyrium growing out of it, but then there’s a monster of flesh and lyrium roaring in his face, eyes glowing red and jagged teeth bared. Its bloated fist swings out and catches him square in the center of his breastplate, a blow strong enough to knock him off his feet and send him skittering over the snow. It brings him dangerously close to an edge where the ground gives way to a pile of rocks and ice, but he regains his feet and tries to find a more advantageous place to hold his ground.

This time when the creature roars at him, it sends a shower of lyrium shards hissing towards him. It isn’t that Michel forgets that the ground gives way behind him – he’s seen what those lyrium shards can do, and the last thing he wants is to have to fight its effects on top of the rest of his problems.

Beneath his foot, a patch of snow and ice gives way, a rock dislodges. _Merde._

* * *

His head is pounding when he regains consciousness, and his vision is swimming when he blinks his eyes open. It’s stone that his head is resting on, not snow, but his hair feels damp. Blood?  

“Did you like the dream I created for you?” Imshael asks. He’s kneeling in front of Michel, head propped up in one hand, still in that same unpleasant black coat and boots from a year ago.

Michel closes his eyes again, opens them, and finds to his dismay that Imshael has not disappeared. Not a figment of his imagination, then. He doesn’t think the demon is using his magic right now, but Michel still prickles with dread and fights back a wave of nausea. He knows better than to think it’s purely a result of hitting his head when he fell.

“You … created it?”

“I heard you came to pay me a visit, so I sent a welcome gift.” Imshael smiles. It’s a feral look. “But my question was purely rhetorical. I know you enjoyed it.”

Michel grimaces and struggles to sit up. He hasn’t been bound, he notes with some relief, but his sword is nowhere to be seen. And someone has removed his armour, which is disconcerting. They’ve left him mostly dressed – he refuses, for the moment, to consider that it was Imshael’s handiwork, though the alternative of some red Templar is perhaps equally disturbing – and the air at least isn’t too cold here. A quick glance around reveals stone walls and arching trees, and Michel guesses after a second that he’s inside the Keep.

That suggests he will need to fight his way out.

Imshael is still smiling.

“I’m going to kill you,” Michel informs him.

“You’re going to try to,” Imshael corrects. He pushes himself effortlessly up to his feet, beginning to pace back and forth as he speaks. “I suppose Mihris never told you what I did to her clan. I could describe what I did to each of them, if you like, though I couldn’t recreate the sound the hunter made when I broke every single bone in his body at the same time, or the smell when you boil an elf in the air around them.”

Michel swallows heavily as he moves to stand up as well, trying to quell the feeling of dread before it can impede his ability to act. He’d known he was getting himself into a difficult fight – the most difficult in his life, most likely, and he’s long since accepted that killing Imshael might be the last thing he does. If he asked, Imshael would probably let him retrieve his sword.

“I like a creative death,” Imshael continues, “and I’m afraid you will need to be a little more creative if you want to hurt me. I’m tempted to toss you back out into the snow and tell you to come back with a better idea.”

“I have hunted you for a year, demon–”

“Naughty. I’ve told you not to call me that.” Imshael clicks his tongue. “But you still have no better plan than to run me through with your sword until I’ve had enough. I’m disappointed, Michel. You haven’t even tried to raise an army to fight me.”

“Killing you is my responsibility,” Michel snaps, “and even if I were entitled to an army, I would not ask them to give their lives. You are mine.”

Imshael reaches out suddenly, a hand fisting into the fabric of Michel’s linen shirt. For the second time that day, Michel feels his head collide sharply with stone, and spots dance in front of his eyes for a second. Imshael is close, too close, like Michel’s mind betrays him by flickering back to that damned dream –

“Possessive. I like that!”

Imshael lets go. Michel remains still for a moment, his own hand braced against the wall as he fights waves of dizziness and nausea. This is certainly not going according to plan …

“How about a choice, chevalier?” Imshael’s fingers tap in a little pattern on top of his own sleeve, as if he is lost in thought. “You want to kill me. I want to see you try, but I don’t want you to waste my time. I could let you go, but why not have a little more fun first?”

Whatever kind of fun Imshael is thinking of, Michel is fairly certain he wants nothing to do with it. He thinks of that dream, the desire in Imshael’s voice, and hopes that is more foul magic twisting his thoughts. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I see you dead.”

“We might be spending a lot of time together, then,” Imshael answers happily.

Michel glares.

“You know,” Imshael muses, the only indication that he notices the bitter look a tiny wink in Michel’s direction, “it puts me in a difficult situation when the thing you desire the most is me.”

“Your death,” Michel corrects.

“That’s not the way you think of it. You’re not searching for my death. You’re searching for me.”

“I can’t kill you unless you’re in front of me.”

That hadn’t been an invitation for Imshael to invade his personal space again, but that’s exactly what the demon does. His fingers curl around Michel’s wrist, sharply pulling up his arm and pinning it above his head, and then on the other side as well.

“Here I am.”

No grin this time. Michel feels his heartbeat quickening, and he turns his head.    

“I have a choice that will make us both happy.” There’s a lack of breath from Imshael’s mouth, but Michel shivers anyway. “You’re curious. My little dream made you wonder, didn’t it? What it’s like to be with a spirit, even though you know I could peel your own skin off of you if I wanted to. Not that I would. I’m deciding on the best way to kill you, but I know it isn’t that.”

“What choice are you offering me?” Michel hisses, and makes a weak attempt to pull his hands free. He could justify that to himself as not wanting two broken wrists on top of an aching head, if he wanted to.

Imshael’s thumb traces over the inside of Michel’s wrist. “You stay with me. We have a little fun, I see how far you’re willing to go, how much you’re willing to take. We won’t do anything you don’t choose to do. And then I let you go, and see if you come back with a good plan on how to kill me.”

“Or?”

“Or I let you pick up your sword, you fail to kill me, and I hang pieces of you off the walls of the Keep. I could even send a few to your Empress, if you would like.”

Michel is silent for a moment. He could sate his curiosity with a kiss, he supposes. Just a hint of pleasure, bodies pressed together, a wandering hand or two. That would give him time to rethink his strategy, and he wouldn’t need to fight with an aching, wounded head. Maybe in a few years he wouldn’t hate himself for it – no, he won’t make it past a few years, will he? In which case he might as well give in and –

He closes his eyes as he angles his head back towards Imshael, his mouth seeking the demon’s.

It isn’t very different from other kisses he’s shared, though Imshael’s lips aren’t as soft as the peasant girls’, and they had certainly not tasted so much like copper or made his skin practically crawl with a strange sensation like this. He exhales, parts his lips as he tries to take more in, tries to close any remaining space between them. There’s a little sigh as Imshael’s teeth graze over his lip, and then –

Then it’s a cry of actual pain as Imshael suddenly moves his hand and wrenches one of Michel’s fingers back on itself. Something tears.

“That’s—that’s not–!”

“I’m not one of your pretty peasant girls,” Imshael snarls. “You know what I’m capable of. I said I would see how much you’re willing to take. I know you can handle a little pain–” A hand leaves Michel’s wrist to grab his throat instead, and he pushes Michel’s head back until it’s back against the cold stone. “It excites you, doesn’t it?”

Michel lowers the injured hand, curling it protectively against his chest. It’s by no means the worst pain he’s felt in his life, though it isn’t pleasant, and he thinks that he’s at least glad it’s his shield arm and not the sword hand. Still, the contrast between the radiating pain and the sense of desire that he’s finally stopped trying to repress is, to his own horror, compelling. Maker.

The grip on Michel’s throat loosens, only to be replaced by Imshael’s mouth. It’s a small and faintly ridiculous thought, but Michel wonders if it will leave a mark, if he’ll stagger back to Sahrnia sporting blood in his hair, a finger with torn ligaments, and a series of love bites on his neck.

“We’re just getting started,” Imshael reminds him, and Michel can feel the demon’s lips curling back into another smile.

“You talk too much,” he accuses, and earns a bite so hard against the flesh of his neck that he thinks Imshael must have drawn blood. He arches forward into the other, his uninjured fingers winding into the fur on his black coat. But there are no soothing kisses to ease the sting of the bite.  

To his own, mild embarrassment, he groans loudly enough that he suspects half the templars in the keep must have heard it.

Imshael just grabs his arm and roughly twists him around before clapping a hand over his mouth. “You’ll give them the wrong idea, chevalier. Quiet, or I’ll give you something to really scream about.”

* * *

 

By the time Michel staggers back to Sahrnia – blood in his hair, bruises on his neck, and a limp that in particular he hopes no one asks about – a few more villagers are missing. The remaining ones seem to think he was dragged off by the same thing that took their family members, and he doesn’t bother to correct them. He needs time to think of an excuse.

And time to figure what in the Maker’s name he’s meant to do _next._


End file.
